Happy St Patrick's Day
by ceirdwenfc
Summary: Written for the St. Patrick's Day challenge on daydverse on LJ. Second place winner. WARNING: STRONG LANGUAGE! Liberal use of the F-word.


Seamus slammed the pitchfork into the unruly pile of hay, scooping up way too much for the size of the fork and pitching it to his right. He did this three more times before he managed to break the pitchfork in half. Again. He reached into the back of his jeans for his wand, and was surprised for a moment that it wasn't there. Before he could look around the barn for where he could have dropped it, he remembered. The remembering infuriated him even more as he threw the part of the pitchfork remaining in his hands away to his left. It clattered and scraped along the rough floor. Seamus ran his fingers through his long hair, the mud on his hands getting tangled in the sweaty strands. "Fuck!" he muttered as he disentangled his hands from his dirty hair. He yanked the hair into a messy tail held together with elastic.

Mud flew from his boots as he stomped to the far corner of the barn to retrieve another pitchfork, quickly returning to his work. The sweat that was streaming down his face was wiped away with an occasional swipe. He knew he was being a fool. Of course, they wouldn't let him go, but he thought that since it was this time of the year, but no. Fuck, no. He'd always gone back for the holiday. Even in their 7th year he'd managed to sneak out for the evening, but not this year. Not only was it lambing season – wasn't it too fucking early for lambing season? Not only was it lambing season, he'd only been here for nine months. He was recovering nicely. He behaved himself, especially around the ladies. He hadn't fucking killed anyone yet; he didn't know exactly what good behavior they were referring to when they said he needed to exhibit _good_ behavior before he would get "special" privileges. Special privileges. What the fuck was that?

He wasn't in a cell, granted, but here he was mucking out the fucking sheep's stalls and every time he broke another fucking pitchfork – who made these fucking things so poorly anyway? The Macmillans really ought to see about using a different supplier. Every time he broke a fucking pitchfork, which was at least one a day, now two as it got closer and closer to the holiday and he wanted to be somewhere else, but no, he couldn't be somewhere else, and why should he be so miserable even if it was supposed to be a fucking punishment? He should really be thankful that he _was_ here. Granted, Loch Cibeirdraoid wasn't Belfast, but it was green, well, they'd promised that it would soon enough be green, and the sky was blue, when it wasn't fucking snowing or raining, and he'd a nice warm bed to sleep in and a hot breakfast to wake up to. He didn't mind the chores. Not really. They just took a little getting used to – a city boy like himself, but he was doing better. Even Mr. Macmillan had said so. And damn, Ernie's mother was a fine cook. He wondered how Ernie had managed to stay so small with the way they dished the meals in her kitchen.

And what the fuck was he thinking before his stomach took over? Yeah, yeah, every time he broke another pitchfork, he had to go crawling back to the big house and have someone repair it by magic. They really should get a new supplier for them, and when he mentioned that to "Skinflint" Macmillan, he got a look that was worse than any of the looks he got at his trial as the man made a low grunt in the back of his throat that said more about what he thought was a waste of money and mumbled a bit about extravagance. He fixed the fork and Seamus went back on his merry way only to break another one. They'd started giving him two to start out with after that.

He slammed his way through another pile of hay dividing it between the stalls. They would bring the sheep in soon. He hoped that he wouldn't have to deliver any of the little ones. Merlin, the thought of that and he might actually _try_ to run away. He continued on with his muttering and cursing, switching back and forth between the English and the Gaelic. He couldn't believe that it was so fucking cold out, but so fucking warm inside the barn. He stripped off his shirt and went back to the mucking. And the muttering. And the swearing. And the fucking sweating.

His head dropped to his chest in remorse and tiredness and longing. He heard the tiny sound, thinking he couldn't imagine how that new little lamb had got out of the small corral they had penned them in so he could finish getting these stalls ready.

He spoke thickly, a bit gruff, but it was a fucking sheep after all.

"All right, lamb, your stall's about finished. How'd you get outta your pen?"

There was a nervous giggle and a shuffle of feet. "I'm not a lamb, Mr. Seamus. I don't live in a pen. I live in the house."

Seamus stopped moving. He recognized Cecily's tiny voice. He wasn't much for kids, and she was a lovely girl and all, but…. He knew that she'd never shown herself to be scared of him, but he didn't know how much of his ranting she had witnessed and he wasn't exactly being polite just then. He took a deep breath, trying to rid himself of his foul mood before he turned to face her. He knew his true feelings always showed through his eyes, and he truly didn't want to frighten the little girl. He finally turned to face her and she laughed, catching him off guard.

"What's so funny, lamb?"

"Your face is dirty. And your hair is…sticking out all over." She motioned with her hands around her own head, her smile brightening the barn immeasurably.

He ran his fingers through it, but they got stuck in the elastic and the sweaty dirt flaked away with his darting fingers. He gave her a weak smile, silently agreeing with her, but continued to say nothing.

"I can fix it for you."

"Can you now?"

She nodded, her grin growing larger. She handed him the bundle of leaves and twigs she had been clutching and he sat down on the dirt floor, flexing his shoulders and shaking his head. "Sit still," she admonished when he pulled his head away from her clawing hands. She pulled the elastic from his hair. He thought she'd pulled some hairs from his head and he frowned, but remained still. He'd grown most of that back himself; without magic, although Susan helped a bit with her wand. He turned towards the sound of Cecily rummaging thought her tote bag, and he screeched like a barn owl when she ran the brush through his hair for the first time.

"Oi, what do you think you're doing?" His voice was a bit louder than he'd planned, but he also hadn't planned on each hair being ripped from his head one by one.

"I'm brushing your hair," she said in a tone that stated the obvious. "Sit still," she ordered in a tone that told him who was boss.

"Can you be a bit gentler, lamb? My hair doesn't grow on trees."

"Of course it doesn't, Mr. Seamus. It grows on your head." She was having a difficult time pulling the brush through a particularly tricky knot.

"So it does." He smiled as the brushstrokes became longer and each time the brush left his hair and started again at the top, he felt a sense of stillness washing over him. His eyes had been closed and he opened them as he tilted his head down to look at the bundle of nature in his hands, but Cecily pulled his head back into place and continued the slow even brushstrokes. He lowered his eyes and realized that in the midst of the twigs and the bits of heather and the two thistles that he counted, was a bunch of bright green clovers. He thought they were clovers. His hand shook as he brought the bundle closer to his face to see that he was right. He was. He didn't see any four leaf ones – those would be rare even in Belfast – but dozens of three leaf clovers cradled in his hands. "Where did you find these, Cecily?" He knew he had spoken in a whisper, but for the moment when she didn't answer right away, he thought she hadn't heard him. He went to say it again, but she put her tiny hand on his shoulder.

"Are they what you wanted?"

"What I wanted? What d'ya mean?"

"Mum said you were looking for shamrocks. I found them in the other field. The MacDonald's place is filled with them. I didn't think they'd mind if they'd make you happy. Do they make you happy Mr. Seamus?"

He smiled as he turned to look at her, her face looking hopeful. He nodded. "They do, lamb. They make me very happy. T'ank you."

"You're welcome." She continued to brush out his hair, and while she twisted it into a simple braid, she put out her hand for the elastic which was wound around his wrist. She stood up and kissed him on the top of his head. "Happy St. Patrick's Day, Mr. Seamus."

"T'ank you Cecily." He took one of the larger clovers and handed it to her while kissing her other hand. "Happy St. Pat's Day to you too, lass." She took her clover and stepped out of the door, leaving it open, letting the bright sunlight shine in, warming Seamus Finnigan's soul.


End file.
